Poison
by HauntedSilver
Summary: "The Gamemakers own his life. Sometimes he just wants to hand the whole thing over." Finnick character study one-shot. Based on the song 'Poison' by All Time Low.


**A/N: My favourite band is All Time Low and I was listening to their song 'Poison' and I had a total epiphany moment and I was like "Oh my gosh, that's Finnick!" And this is the result of a Finnick and All Time Low obsession. **

**l**

Most of the people in Finnick's world divide into three categories: the men who want to be him, the women who want to be with him, and the people who want both.

There are three other categories for the people who don't fall under any of these: Annie, the people who control him, and the people who know the truth. There's only one Annie, the people who control him are all Gamemakers or in the government, and not many people know the truth.

l

Lots of people say that Annie has more than one person living inside her head. Finnick knows this isn't true. Sometimes he wishes there were other people in his head, though. People to sit in the house at the back of his head while some Capitol girl is getting pinned to the mattress, so he doesn't have to be there. And then when he sees Annie again, or when someone needs him, he can come back to the house again.

It's just him in his head though. Maybe he didn't buy a good enough house.

l

Sometimes Finnick feels like an example. Like the next fatally attractive Victor will have to follow in his footsteps. Like they'll watch his tapes and long for a journal on how to navigate the waters he's drowning in. Sometimes Finnick wants to erase all of the footage, pretend he was never a Victor.

He can't, though. So he leaves the footprints of his past alone. Evidence.

l

The Gamemakers own his life. It belongs to him and it belongs to them. Sometimes he just wants to hand the whole thing over. They can have it. They can give it to someone else who can try on his clothes.

There's so many people who want to be him. They want his life. The only thing he can think of that's worth keeping is Annie.

They say you have to walk a mile in someone else's shoes to understand them. But you can't be them. You can't be a replacement. The shoes don't fit anyone else.

l

"I wish I was like you," The girl mumbles, running her fingers on his neck. And that's all she is, a girl. She can't be more than seventeen. She shouldn't be here.

But she is.

You really don't, he wants to say. That's a terrible wish. But she wants it anyway.

l

Finnick has always liked the night.

It's calm, lonely. The ocean hits the shore at just the right tempo and the moon is the only light. A person can lose themself in the night, disappear into the star-spattered sky. His skin can blend into the shadows and he can fade entirely. Gone, lost. No sex icon, no Victor, no incredibly attractive male. He doesn't even have to be Finnick. He doesn't have to be anyone.

Annie always finds him on the dock at night, if he's not occupying someone else's bed.

She never says anything. She just sits beside him and takes his hand. Joins him in the silence.

That's the funny thing about Annie. He's her anchor, the one to bring her back from the land she sometimes drifts too. The land inside her head, a million miles away.

But she anchors him too. Annie keeps him from losing his mind.

l

Nights are too short sometimes. Especially if he's alone.

When he's with some nameless, faceless girl the night drags on forever until he can't wait for morning. He can't just sneak away while she sleeps.

Good nights are fleeting. Nights when him or Annie can get a good night's sleep are rare and short. Days can last forever.

Days of being a Victor, of trading secrets and partying in the Capitol.

He can't wait until the day his carefully gathered secrets are needed.

l

Finnick isn't a person. He's a brand. He's been bought so many times he never bothered to count.

He's not the only brand, but he's the most popular.

l

Fame is bad. He doesn't know why anyone would ever want it.

It's bad enough to face fame, but facing fans is worse. Facing them means nights spent in their beds. It means playing their game.

He's been told he plays too rough.

l

President Snow is interesting to watch.

Finnick learned from someone that Snow poisoned his enemies. Poison in wine that killed them and made his lips puffy and bleeding.

He tips his head ever so slightly, appraising the president carefully and sipping his drink. Finnick sometimes wishes he could poison his enemies. Every government member and every woman who's paid to be in his bed. Every person who's threatened someone he loves.

That would be a lot of poison.

l

He's dreaming.

Finnick is dreaming that a look-alike has taken his place, that him and Annie and Mags have escaped into the woods. Woods aren't his thong, but he doesn't care. His awful life has been handed over.

When he wakes up, his eyes are stinging with tears of longing.

l

There's something too corruptible about Capitol girls. As if granting their wish to be with him they've rotted a core in their hearts.

It's not true, of course, but sometimes it seems that way.

"Your house is beautiful, Finnick." The woman says, perched in his doorway. He pauses to analyze her before answering. Three-inch eyelashes, gold swirls on her wrists, oversized eyes. Definitely from the Capitol.

Finnick tries not to grimace. He feels like the second she's let in her heart is filled with corruption. Like he's offered her poison at his door.

"My friends say I have a heart of gold," The woman whispers.

"That's not a very good secret." He says seductively, stroking her collarbone. What was this girl's name again?

_Would you trade that heart of gold for a minute in my skin?_ He wants to say instead. But he already knows the answer.

She would.

She already has.


End file.
